


The Game is On

by Good_Morning_And_Good_Night



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark Jack Frost, Gen, Good Pitch Black, Jack is moriarty, Mike is Mike, Sherlock AU, aster is john, cause i cant think of anything, jamie is carl powers, pippa is molly, pitchiner is sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-04-14 06:21:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4554081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Good_Morning_And_Good_Night/pseuds/Good_Morning_And_Good_Night
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically Rise of the Guardians Sherlock AU. If you didn't read the tags:<br/>Pitchiner Black - Sherlock Holmes<br/>Aster Bunnymund - John Watson<br/>Pippa - Molly<br/>Jack Frost - Jim Moriarty<br/>Jamie - Carl Powers</p>
<p>Pitch is a good guy and Jack is a bad guy but otherwise it's all cool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jack From IT

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or realities (unless otherwise stated). I do not make money off of this.
> 
> This is not betaed. If you see any mistakes, I would love for you to kindly point them out.

Pitchiner stared through his microscope at some samples of _something_ as the search loudly completed and Pippa burst through the lab doors, her hair a bit messy and a smile on her face.

“Any luck?”

“Oh, yes!” Pitchiner said, shifting his attention between several scientific utensils. Pippa scooched over to where Pitchiner was standing, when suddenly the door opened and a lithe man with bleached hair, skinny jeans and t-shirt burst in.

“Oh, sorry… I di-”

“Jack! Hello! Come in! If you’ve got the time, anyway.” A soft ‘I do’ carried over from where Jack was standing as he a little shyly stumbled over to the trio. A step in, he remembered to close the door and turned to close it before taking a few long-legged steps over. Pippa smiled at him and then turned to Pitchiner.

“Jack, this is Pitchiner Black.” A sound of slight surprise burst from Jack’s throat. Pippa shifted her attention to Aster, who was shuffling awkwardly behind Pitchiner. “And uh…” the silence was permeable. “sorry -”

“Aster Bunnymund.” Aster looked suspiciously at Jack, wondering who the heck he was. And why he was here. At all.

“Hi…” Jack nearly whispered out as his gaze wandered around the room and then settled on Pitch’s slightly hunched back. “So you are the Pitchiner Black I’ve heard of from this little lady here.” Jack slightly nudged her with his elbow, as if in reflex, his eyes remaining mostly on Pitch’s form. “She’s told me all about you.” Jack then seemed to reluctantly turn to Pippa and poke her in the stomach, causing her to giggle and bat his hands away.

He soon turned back though. “Are you on one of your cases?” He then slowly walked over to the other side of Pitch, leaving Pippa to keep talking.

“Jack works in IT upstairs. That’s mostly how we met. A bit of office romance and ice.” She was nervous, fiddling with her fingers and at one point her right hand darted up to fix her short, tomboyish hair.

Pitchiner looked up from his microscope to peek at everybody except for Aster from his peripheral vision. “Hmm. Gay.” He said under his breath leaning down to his microscope again.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” Pitchiner turned his head ever so slightly to Jack’s direction. “Hello, Jack.” He even added a short smile, though even Aster could tell it was fake.

A short moment of silence bloomed tentatively as Pitchiner turned back to his microscope was shattered as Jack accidentally knocked over an empty petri dish from the table and covered the sound with smatterings of _sorry! sorry. Oh, sorry. I’m a bit clumsy when I meet people._ Aster shook his head and mouthed _brat_. Nobody noticed, but then again, nobody really does noticed an invalided, damaged war captain.

Once he got himself and the petri dish in order, Jack rocked on the balls of his feet for a few moments, looking around the lab and what Pitchiner was working on. As the silence dragged on, Aster found himself wishing for this Jack to leave them be, he’s just disturbing the day today. It was really obvious Pippa was using Jack to attempt to promote some kind of jealousy for her one-sided affections, but it was also obvious to see it wasn’t working.

Aster almost sighed in relief as Jack started to leave. “Well, uh… I’ll leave you to your work. I’ve still got something to do upstairs, tedious checking of computers.” He did small groan that was supposed to be kind of funny, but when nobody laughed, he just slipped out the room with an accidental brush against Pitch and a conscious touch of the elbow to Pippa. “I’ll see you at the Fox, about… uh… sixish?” Aster, while listening couldn’t hear a single word containing even the slightest amount of affection.

“Yeah.”

“Bye.” He was already at the door. How did Jack get to the door already? “It was nice to meet you.” Jack was facing toward Pitch, like Aster was useless. Well he was, but not completely! His pride bristled a little bit. Jack waited for an answer a bit expectantly, biting his lip like he was meeting his idol.

Pitch didn’t react at all, continuing to look through the microscope. After a few moments, Aster felt almost required to answer for him, “You too.” even though it was directed at the brilliant mind (why didn’t people say that more?) of Pitch’s. Both Pippa and Jack glanced over at him before looking back at Pitch, and Jack took it as his cue to leave the room. Aster could barely restrain his sigh. Something felt _off_ about Jack, but he couldn’t tell what just yet.

Pippa crossed her arms over her chest. “What did you mean… gay? We’re together. Pippa and Jack.”

“And domestic life must really suit you Pippa. You’ve put on, what, three pounds since I’ve last seen you?”

“It’s only two and a half!”

“Well, that’s almost three, you can give me that, eh?” Pitchiner almost sneered, as if trying actively not to piss off the only person who could provide him with a lab.

“Pitchiner…” Aster was reaching the end of his mind. Who the heck was Jack Frost? He shook his head a little. Didn’t matter that much, first take care of what mess Pitchiner was creating.

“He’s not gay!” She seemed to be holding back the urge to slam her hand on the table. Maybe. Or resisting the urge of slapping Pitchiner. Or destroying part of the lab. Something. “Why do you always have to spoil m-.” She visibly forced herself to calm down. “He’s not gay. We have a very nice relationship.”

“With _that_ level of personal grooming?” Pitchiner drawled out.

“Pitchiner, just because he puts some stuff in his hair doesn’t mean anything! I put stuff in my hair!” Aster knew it was time to intervene. Pippa was visibly strained, gritting her teeth and balling her fists at her sides.

“You wash your hair. He grooms his hair. There’s a difference. Of course you wouldn’t find it.” Pitch remained at his microscope and refused to move.

“Alright, I’ll bite. Why in the bloody hells would you make such an accusation that would ruin a relationship?!”

“Tinted eyelashes, contouring around the frown lines, minute bits of makeup around his eyes. Then his underwear.”

“Underwear?” Aster took a slight step back. Ugh. Underwear. Other people’s underwear. You don’t just talk about that.

“Well it’s visible above the waistline, very visible, that plus the brand.”

Pitchiner took a minute breath, but Aster felt like he had been around him enough to know when he took such breaths for such giant speeches. It probably wasn’t healthy but Pitchiner would hardly listen to him now, would he?

“That and the suggestive fact that he just left his number under the empty petri dish he so accidentally knocked over.” At this, he reached over to the petri dish, and lifted it up to find a small piece of paper reading his number, a smilie face and ‘Call me?’. He handed it to Pippa, and when she couldn’t release her fists, put it on the table next to her.

Aster would have moved forward if he wasn’t just mulling over the fact that the guy from IT, Jack, had just slipped a piece of paper under something that is clear without him knowing about it.

“And I would say, as knowledgeable in what happens next, that you break off the relationship early and spare yourself the later pain.”

Pippa bared her teeth, grabbed the piece of paper, accidentally tipping a few other empty petri dishes off the table (making a small visible effort to catch them but not picking them up) before storming out and even slamming the door.

Pitchiner shook his head a little and looked back at the microscope.

 


	2. Meetings

Aster limped after his old friend Mike, leaning heavily on his poor old wooden cane. His leg was acting up again. It might be psychosomatic (he knew it) but it still hurt too much to deal with. Mike led him to the laboratories, wherein Aster hesitated for a second because of all the new renovations. A new table was placed in the middle that didn’t stand on a few wobbly legs, and there was much more equipment than before, and much more pristine.

“Bit better from my day.” Aster huffed a bit, squinting at a new thing in the corner. It did… something. Aster wasn’t too big on researching things himself, but he did like to be up to date on certain things. He resolved to find out what it was when he left for his bedsit. Keep him from looking at his gun.

Aster came back to the end of whatever short thing Mike had said “... no idea!” And then he finally looked around the actual place. He hadn’t moved much from the doorway, but the man sitting at the center table, using a pipette to squeeze something onto something was a bit of an eyegrabber.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.” And his voice grabbed your attention, and even though it sounded villainous, Aster had too many memories of how that worked. They could sound as villainous as they wanted as long as they were okay people.

Mike sighed at that, as if he was used to lending his phone but seriously didn’t want to. “What’s wrong with the landline?” His eyes darted to Aster and maybe he was trying to impress his old friend, but it was an iffy thought anyway, so Aster pushed it away.

The dark haired man with a grey complexion and a long, cheekbony face turned to Mike with a deadpan expression. “You know I prefer to text.” He drawled, tugging out the word “text” like it was a small bit of gum you can’t do anything with.

Mike’s eyes darted to Aster again and then he shifted just a little so he was standing straighter and offered up the most cowardly response any one of Aster’s (now admittedly old) friends could give. “Sorry. It’s in my coat.”

Aster had the urge to facepalm, only saving himself by deciding to save both of them and offered up his own phone, tugged out from his back pocket. “Here. You can use mine.”

The man’s eyes widened a fraction as his gaze shifted from Mike to Aster, slowly walking toward Aster, eyes searching for something. Aster decided it was the perfect moment to introduce himself, since he didn’t trust Mike to make a fool of himself anymore.

“My name is Aster Bunnymund. I’m an old friend of Mike.” The man reached forward with his hand and almost snapped the phone from Aster’s grip, as if his hand was a snake having reached its prey. He opened the phone while keeping one calculating eye on Aster until he started typing, and then he simply asked a shocking question.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

Aster blinked.

And then he blinked again, because even though he had perfect hearing, and could often hear things before other people (or soldiers), he could mess up every now and then. Whatever. He was human.

And then he shook his head a little. “Sorry?”

The man paused in his typing as he rolled his eyes. “You heard me. Which was it, Afghanistan - or Iraq?”

Aster decided to just answer on principle. “Afghanistan. I’m sorry, but how did you know…?”

And he was interrupted by a young lady with short brown hair stepping into the laboratory with a cup of coffee in her hand. She looked a little disappointed, but in a way that seemed like she was covering it up. Aster decided he didn’t want to know why she was disappointed. He had never understood women when he was younger, he probably won’t start now.

“Ah, Pippa. Lovely to know you brought my coffee.” He flipped Aster’s phone closed and shoved it into Aster’s hand while stepping toward Pippa, who had a white laboratory coat on and a green shirt underneath. He took the coffee and stared a little at Pippa. He then squinted his eyes a little, staring (for a second) at Pippa’s face.

“What happened to the lipstick?”

Pippa stood a bit awkwardly, eyes darting a bit around, resting a little on Aster and Mike. Her hands rubbed each other the entire time. “It… wasn’t really working for me…”

The (still!) mystery man widened his eyes a little and turned away to start drinking his coffee. “Really? I thought it was an improvement.” He grimaced at the taste of coffee. Aster winced a little. So there was one thing that hadn’t improved. And it was the only thing he specifically wanted improved. “Now your mouth’s too… small, for lack of better wording.”

Pippa looks a little dejected and Aster can’t help but feel incredulous. This is the person Pippa, a seemingly upstanding young lady is pining for? This bloody show-pony?

“... All right.” Her eyes are a bit harder now, crystallizing around the edges as starts toward the door, hands clenched to her sides, twitching in desire to punch the git (or so Aster thinks. He’s not so sure.)

“How do you feel about the violin?” Aster was taken aback again. What now? He shot his eyes toward Pippa, but she was leaving, and then at Mike, who was leaning smugly against one of the outer tables, as if he was showing off a dog who could do an exceptionally good trick. Aster scowled internally. That was part of the reason he didn’t care much for his old friends. He tried to meet up with one but he gave such a flimsy excuse that Aster just hung up on him.

“I’m sorry, what?”

The man reams him with a pointed look but sits down at his computer and repeats what he said after a quick mumble about hearing and repetitiveness. “I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.” Here he glanced up at Aster for a short second. “Do things like that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about one another.” At that he almost grimaces at Aster, as if he didn’t feel like mustering up the energy to give him a proper smile.

Aster turned back to Mike. “Did you tell him about me?” That would make up for the rest of the foolishness that had happened.

“Not a word.” And there went his hopes, crashing to the ground. Good job, Mike. Good job. Could always count on you handing in your biology homework three days late.

Aster turned back to the strange man. “Then who has said anything about flatmates?”

The man sighed and reached for his jacket, which Aster only now realized had hung over the back of his chair. “ _I_ did. I had told Mike this morning that I must be a very difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t that difficult a leap. A child could have made it.”

Aster was pushed back to the question about how the grey-skinned man figured out he was a military man from Afghanistan. “How _did_ you know about Afghanistan?”

The man huffed a bit and decidedly ignored the question, instead pulling out his own phone and checking something on it. “I have my eye on a quaint flat in central London. You should be able to help us afford it.” He then took two long-legged steps toward Aster. “We’ll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o’clock. Sorry – have to go. I believe I left my riding crop in the mortuary.” He then took long-legged steps to the door, thinking the conversation to be over.

Aster rounded on him and his long-legged-ness. It didn’t matter that he didn’t have such long legs, he could be just as tough! Just, in different situations. “Is that all you’re going to say?”

“Why? Should I say something else?”

Aster shook his head. “We’ve only just met and we’re gonna go and look at a flat?” This man was maddening!

The man lifted an eyebrow. “Problem?”

Aster tries his darndest not to gape. What was this man even thinking? A quick look at Mike proved that he was still standing smugly and even if he was going to help, Aster had already decided he wasn’t going to take his help. “We don’t know a bloody thing about each other. I don’t know where you’re planning to meet me and you haven’t even told me you name!” ‘You bloody show-pony’ was added on in Aster’s head, since it would be impolite to say that to a complete stranger.

The man stared at Aster for a few seconds before opening his mouth and nerf bullets out of his mouth. “I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid.”

Aster glanced at his leg out of reflex and realized his cane was almost falling out of his grasp. Unconsciously, he shifted his weight to the other foot.

“That’s enough to go on, don’t you think?” At that he continued his long-legged walk to the door, opening it with such an ease it seems like magic. Then he turned back to Aster. “The name is Pitchiner Black and the address is two - two - one Baker Street. See you.” Then, with a quick nod to Mike, whose grin now looked scarily like the Cheshire Cat’s grin from Alice in Wonderland, Pitchiner was gone.

Aster blinked a few more times and realized that he was ridiculously exhilarated. It felt like the war all over again, but it didn’t feel bad. It was less dangerous but more dangerous because information had a danger all on its own and sometimes nobody realized it.  Turning to Mike, he decided to let him try and explain what the heck he was trying to show off.

“Yeah. He’s always like that.”

Well then. That explains it.

Aster left Bart’s with a lighter heart and a few thoughts to think.


	3. Jack Frost, Consulting Criminal

When Pitchiner steps through the door to where the indoor pool lies, there are several things he notes immediately. The lights are very bright, blindingly so, that any standing in the area like him can be immediately noted like a blemish on a clear face. There’s not much he can do about anything here, but Pitchiner takes stock of everything around him before making any kind of noise.

And when he does so, he first retrieves the memory stick from a pocket unseen on his person to hold it up in plain sight. No need to be viewed as any more of a threat than Frost knew he was.

“Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present. Oh, that’s what it’s all been for, hasn’t it? All your little puzzles; making me dance” this word was spit out, mainly hatred for the action that Pitchiner couldn’t help but portray, “ – all to distract me from this.” He waggles the memory stick and carefully catalogues the area around him for any sort of movement. This was key. Knowledge was power, and when he did not have the upper hand, he had to find a handhold to drag himself up and out of the dark.

When he notices that it is Aster that walks through the door, he freezes, his mind whizzing faster than he can even speak - and horrifically, things seem to match up, connect. The puzzle has been put together, and the image has turned out to be his flatmate. Pitchiner can only blink at his now once- flatmate as he begins to speak.

“Good Evening.” Pitch doesn’t think it’s good at all, is staring at the grey haired man standing before him, noting how the grey always seems to look a little blue and keeps the rage at bay swirling like black horses in the stables of his mind palace.

“This is quite the turn-up, isn’t it, Pitch?” Pitchiner notes the shortened name and the horses start rattling the gates, wishing to escape.

“What…? Aster…” Pitchiner can feel his eloquence slip away by the second. His hand feels weak, and he has the inordinate urge to stuff his hands in his pockets even though he hasn’t done that since he was forced into grade school and he wouldn’t start now.

“Bet you never saw  _ this _ coming.” Pitch takes a step forward, in confusion or despair or anger, Pitchiner doesn’t particularly know.

And then Aster opens the jacket he was wearing to reveal a bomb strapped to his chest, and Pitch’s horses stop attempting to be free and instead buck and kick, whiny at the fear Pitchiner internalized. If it wasn’t Aster, then who was it? Aster is staring at him, eyes scared and small and tired, and Pitchiner absentmindedly recognizes the slight symptoms of his shoulder acting up. His leg wouldn’t act up in this adrenaline, and his shoulder wouldn’t stop him if he wanted to - could fight, but it was still acting up.

“What ... would you like me ... to make him say ... next?”

Pitch looks around the room, while taking a few subconscious steps toward his flatmate, as if he could protect him in this moment of pure fear.

“Gottle o’ geer ... gottle o’ geer ... gottle o’ geer.” Aster is afraid. Pitchiner can sense it, can tell so easily what is so frightening to Aster and he wishes he could make it go away until it isn’t so frightening but he has no experience in such a thing, only making people afraid of him. 

“Stop it.” He tries.

“Nice touch, this: The pool where little Jamie died. I stopped him.” Aster takes a fortifying breath and then cuts it off to continue narrating what was being told to him. “And I can stop E. Aster Bunnymund too. Stop his heart.” Aster glances down at his chest to look at the red dot on the bomb and looks back up. Pitchiner doesn’t want him to die.

“Who  _ are _ you?”

“I gave you my number. Thought you might call me back.” The words didn’t come from Aster but instead from the doorway that had been closed moments ago. And through it stepped Jack. Jack in a full three piece suit, seemingly fitted on him to sit on his skin - hiding everything and nothing. His hair was white, though, and it looked perfectly natural, even though the boy-man wasn’t albino or anything.

Pitchiner tugged on mental strands connecting pieces and flipped over the original puzzle to provide the true answer. Of course. The puzzle was double sided. That’s what went wrong. But this man was different from the boyfriend mirage he had seen before. This creature was deadly, poised and ready. His walk was a dance, like he was too light to stick to the ground and didn’t feel like flying. 

Most of all, he was cold, his smile chilling and his gaze freezing.

“Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket,” Pitchiner pulled it out quickly. This man didn’t seem like he would be afraid of anything, like he was a spirit that had seen too much and didn’t care anymore, but it didn’t hurt to try. “Or are you just happy to see me?” His smile took a mocking tone.

“Both.”

“Jack Frost. Hi!” He childishly waves his right hand as his smile grows bigger, pearl white teeth glinting in the blinding light. In this light, Jack looks like an innocent angel standing before two dangerous people. If you didn’t look into his eyes. Back in reality, he must have spent too long contemplating the man. He was frowning a little now.

“Jack? From the hospital?” He then continued, as if Pitchiner didn’t remember Jack. “Frost like the genius you’ve been chasing?” Aster felt the need to scoff, but he didn’t want to be killed on a whim.

Jack’s frown deepened. “Oh. Did I really make such a fleeting impression?” Jack spun around, staring at the ceiling before looking right at Pitch and shrugging, the icicles in his eyes melting into perfect snowflakes. “But then, I suppose, that  _ was _ rather the point.”

The red dot on Aster’s chest reappeared from where it had disappeared at some point beforehand. Pitch glanced at him to reaffirm what he had seen in the corner of his eye before looking pointedly at Jack, who looked back with big wondering eyes.

“Don’t be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don’t like getting my hands dirty.” He waggles his hands in front of him as he practically skips toward Pitch’s side of the pool. Seemingly mid-jump, he stops and turns to look at Pitchiner, a necklace of a shepherd's crook hanging from his neck now that Pitchiner can see it. 

“I’ve given you a glimpse, Pitch, just a teensy glimpse of what I’ve got going on out there in the big bad world. I’m a specialist, you see …” The lights around the three of them seem brighter, that much more glaring, like it had been reflecting off of pure white snow the entire time.

He then childishly raises a finger as if a lightbulb had gone off in his head. “Like you!”

Pitchiner, without breaking his gaze with Jack, starts speaking again. “Dear Jack. Please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover’s nasty sister?” 

Jack smiles, like his favorite show had come on and he had settled in front of the TV right on time.

“Dear Jack. Please, will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?”

Jack looked even more pleased, his eyes closing part of the way as he leaned on one foot.    
“Just so.”

Pitchiner took a few steps forward. “Consulting criminal.” Jack looked inordinately happy. Under his breath, Pitchiner continued. “Brilliant.” Aster looked horrified. He would have spoken but there was a red dot still on his chest, so he kept quiet.

“Isn’t it? No-one ever gets me -- and no-one ever will.”

Pitchiner cocks the gun - a fluid motion like slinking into darkness and shadows. “ _ I _ did.”

Jack smiled, unafraid, waving him off. “You’ve come the closest.” He stopped, and looked back up at Pitchiner with a serious look on his face. “Now you’re just in the way.”

“Thank you.”

Jack’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t mean that as a  _ compliment _ .”

“Yes you did.”

Jack thinks about it for a second, his eyes wandering to the well lit ceiling and shrugged. “Yeah, okay, I did. But the snowballs and fun times are over, Pitch… or, at least for you.” He smiles and steps closer, his voice high but quiet, carried over to the two seemingly by the wind. “Daddy’s had enough now!”

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how this came out, mainly because I'm only dipping my toe into the Sherlock fanfiction writing, so please tell me how it came out.  
> Also, should I keep writing bits and pieces of this universe?


End file.
